This Season Will Never Grow Old
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Christmas fic with Mark, Addison and child. Addison struggles to convince her skeptical four-year-old daughter that Santa Claus is real and will make her Christmas wishes come true. One-shot fluff. Belongs to 2008 Christmas songbook; all songs on profile.


Snowflakes swirl when you cuddle with her in bed; you watch the storm through the window and she sighs happily, not even minding that you won't stay with her tonight because you're on call and you've got to leave for the hospital in five minutes.

"You should stay in, Mommy. It's snowing. You don't want to get cold."

"When you wake up tomorrow morning, there should be even more snow than there is now. We'll build a snowman in the front yard, and then we'll have hot chocolate with marshmallows. How does that sound, Es?"

Esme grins and bounces a little in bed. "I love the snow. It's going to be the best surprise!"

You smile and stroke back her hair, the damp ringlets that cling around her high forehead and kiss the spot just between her eyes, that your grandmother used to call the third eye. "I will see you in the morning. I love you."

"I love you, too." Esme's lower lip starts to pout, proof that despite her advanced diction and gifted status, she's still just four years old and she misses you when you go away. "How come you can't stay again?"

"Because I have to go help a lady who's sick. You wouldn't want her to not have Mommy's help. That's what doctors do."

"I know," she whispers, and she does know, having had to give you up to your job since the day she was born. She shifts in bed, her red hair pooling on the pillowcase, and puts her mouth up to your ear so that you can hear her a little better.

"But it's really close to Christmas, so remember to tell your boss that you need to stay home with me, okay?"

"Can you lend me for tonight?" You can't believe how astute she is – or how much you adore her.

"Yes, but I need you for Christmas, okay?"

"Okay, peanut."

//~//

Esme is a four-year-old ball of energy with your looks and Mark's blunt personality. She's not beyond exclaiming "Jesus Christ" when she's surprised or similar sentiments if she's upset or excited. You've already had a serious talk with Mark about swearing in front of the baby, but he can't seem to curb his habit now that she's older.

"Addie, it's not like they're bad swear words. She'll be hearing them soon enough at school."

"Yes, Mark, she probably will. But being as she's just a preschooler at this point, wouldn't it be nice if we could preserve the innocence a little longer than a few years?" You run a hand through your hair. "She's a little girl, not a trucker."

"Or a rude plastic surgeon?"

"That, neither." You smile at him. "But she does seem to take after you in other ways."

"My intelligence and charm?" He winks back at you and you stick out your tongue.

"Thanks for making me agree."

In response, he kisses your neck and then your ear. "She takes more after you, I think."

Esme bursts in at this point. "Ew! Kissing!"

"What do you mean, ew?" Mark sweeps her up into his arms and tickles her until she squeals.

"Daddy! That's not nice! We don't hurt!" Her baby frown, wrinkling her smooth forehead, darkens her blue eyes and she crosses her arms. "You should say sorry."

"Sorry, peanut." He kisses her cheek and she smiles back at him, his exact grin, down to the mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Tickle tickle!" She drives her tiny fingers into Mark's neck, but he's not ticklish, and he just retaliates by getting her tummy, until the whole point of getting the family together seems moot.

"If you two are done, I'd like to get this tree decorated." You look pointedly at the box of ornaments at your feet and the two give you the same guilty look. Esme speaks up first.

"Sorry, Mommy."

"Peanut, I'm kidding." You take her from her father and give her a kiss on her soft hair. "But I do need your help. If we don't decorate this tree tonight, Santa Claus won't have any place to leave the presents!"

Esme's brow furrows again, but she struggles to get down, anyway. "Can I set up the nativersity?"

Mark laughs, but you shoot him a look. "The nativity?"

"Yeah. With the baby Jesus."

"Only if Daddy helps you." You shudder to think of a four-year-old "setting up" the thirty-year-old bone china figures your grandmother gave you when you moved out of your parents' house.

Mark intercepts your look. "I'll just hold them until you're ready, okay, peanut?"

"You can JUST hold them. That's it. I get to set it up, right, Mommy? No help!"

You get down to her level and look her straight in her determined blue eyes. "These figures are very special to me, and I need you to be very careful. This year, you're big enough to set them up yourself, but you need to allow Daddy to help, okay? Mommy will be very upset if you break any of them."

Esme's lower lip trembles. "I want to do it myself," she mutters rebelliously, and yanks her hands out of yours.

"Esme, if you can't listen to your mom, you won't get to set the nativity up at all," booms Mark, directly at the wrong time, as usual. You can almost count down until the storm hits, and you shoot him an exasperated glare as Esme's face starts to turn as red as her hair. She didn't get a lot of sleep last night, and like always, the fatigue shows in her lessened patience.

"I just want to help!" she shrieks, her little fists clenching at the sides. "I'm big enough this year! You said!"

Her voice could shatter glass, and you know that Mark can't stand it when Esme throws a tantrum. Silently, but with a patented Look of Death on his face, he scoops her up and takes her up to her room. You can hear the tantrum going on long after he returns, red-faced himself.

"Mark, you need to not interrupt when she's getting upset like that. She's frustrated and now she feels like she isn't being understood."

"Addie, I'm not going to stand for her tantrums. You know that."

You spend a minute glaring at each other until he softens. "I know she thinks she's big enough this year, but you do let her get away with talking back and I just find that disrespectful."

"It is disrespectful. Four years old is a hard animal to train."

"She's just . . . like you, as a child." He winks at you, and you know it's true.

"Comes with the red hair, I guess."

"Mommy?" The little voice calls down the stairs, sounding foggy, and you smile a little.

"Has it been four minutes?"

"Probably. Just go."

You head up the stairs, chuckling a little at your half-assed discipline attempts, and stop at the pink-and-white cotton candy room that hasn't changed since Esme was a baby.

"Do you have something you need to tell me?"

Her face is tearstained and she's clutching an old battered white unicorn named Moonbeam in her arms. "I'm sorry I was rude to you and Daddy."

"Thank you." You open your arms and she runs into them, lying her head on your shoulder and sucking her thumb, an old habit that you haven't had the heart to break yet. You rock her for a moment, humming under your breath, when she leans back.

"Bobby told me there's no Santa Claus."

"Who's Bobby?" What little punk would dare to ruin that for a little girl? You already feel your mother lion instinct raring, but you try to stay calm.

"He's a boy at school. His mommy told him that Santa Claus is a lie, and that you shouldn't lie to kids. Is he a lie, Mommy?"

God forgive you for what you say, but four years old is too damned young. "No. Santa Claus is magical and real."

Esme looks convinced. "You wouldn't lie. Moms never lie."

As you hold your little girl close to you, you wonder exactly when that belief ebbs away. "No, sweetie, Moms try not to ever lie to their kids."

//~//

"I want a glass horse for Christmas. A pretty shiny horsey." Esme is speaking through a mouthful of Spaghetti-Os and Mark winces as flecks of tomato sauce start to spatter on her white shirt.

"Esme, honey, please chew with your mouth closed."

Esme swallows and grins. "Sorry."

"Anyway," you interject, "what glass horse?"

"Like you have. That Daddy gave you." She's referring to your Swarovski collection of animals. Mark has given you one every year you've been together, and you have quite a menagerie now.

You exchange a look with Mark, wondering how to articulate "too expensive" to a four-year-old. "Well, sweetie, those animals are very special to me . . ."

"I know. And I know they're 'spensive. But Santa Claus is real. He'll bring me one."

You feel like banging your head on the table. Great, Addison. "Well, Esme, he may not . . . it's awfully late for requests. It's Christmas Eve," you try to rationalize.

Esme's lower lip begins to tremble again and you shoot a desperate look at Mark, who automatically tries to diffuse the situation. "Well, peanut, maybe Santa will bring you one if you wish really hard?"

You shoot him a look and he gives you a shrugged "What do you want me to do?" look over Esme's head.

When the little girl has her hands and face wiped from lunch, she wanders off into the other room to look at the tree and you fix Mark with a look.

"Thanks for that. Really."

"Well? What are you going to say? You already told me that some punk at school says that Santa's not real. You want her Christmas ruined?"

"Are you going to go out to the jewellery store and find a Swarovski crystal horse for our four-year-old?"

You know it's on the tip of his tongue to say yes, since he can't refuse his little girl anything. But you've both chosen Esme's big gifts, and spending close to $70 on a glass horse that can't be touched by careless little hands isn't one of them.

Mark sighs. "She's going to be disappointed."

"She's going to have to learn that you can't get everything you want in life," you announce heartlessly, but inside, you know it's deeper than that. It's about Esme's belief that you'll never lie to her, and that Santa Claus can do anything because it's Christmastime. So you sigh again.

"Where's the laptop?"

As Mark carries Esme up for her afternoon nap, she yawns sleepily and reaches out her arms for you. "I'll see you after, Mommy."

The one good thing about Esme is that she never complains about naps. You kiss her flushed little cheeks. "Have a good nap, sweetie. I'll come wake you up in an hour."

"Okay," she murmurs, already half-asleep on Mark's shoulder.

is thankfully a Godsend at Christmastime, and in a moment, you find yourself clicking through Swarovski crystal animals, neatly displayed on the page in front of you. In no time, you've found a "horsey" – but it's also $200.

Mark comes down and rubs your shoulders. "Maybe we should have a nap, too."

"I found her horse," you reply as if he hasn't said anything. "But look at the price."

He shrugs. "So search for that item only. I'm sure it's not the only glass horse on eBay."

Sure enough, he's right, and you pay extra shipping and handling to have the sender send it out tonight in Express Priority. $30 later, you find out that the shipper is actually in New York and can hand deliver it.

Esme is awake when you come upstairs, playing with Moonbeam on the wide expanse of her covers. "Hi, Mommy."

"Hi, baby. How was your nap?"

"Good. I had a nice dream about my glass horsey that Santa will bring me. I'm going to call her Crystal."

"That's a nice name." You open your arms and Esme climbs in them, cuddling in for a moment and sucking her thumb while she wakes up.

You rock her for a minute, trying to imagine a time where you didn't get to do this – where your fiery little girl didn't have a place in your life. "I love you, peanut."

"I love you, too." She kisses your cheek and has Moonbeam kiss you, too.

As you lift her, you find that she's a little damp. "Esme, sweetie, did you have an accident?" At four years old, she's night trained, but when she's very tired, she occasionally wets the bed.

Esme blushes. "No!"

You pass a hand over her covers and find them damp, too. "It's okay if you had an accident."

"But I didn't." She pouted. "I just spilled my water."

You look at her water cup, which is still full. "Esme, remember when you said that you knew mommies would never lie to their kids?"

"Yeah."

"Well, mommies hope that their kids will never lie to them, either. Do you know why lying is wrong?"

"Because it's not telling the truth?"

"And what does the truth mean?"

"It means that you have to say what's real and not make up a story."

"Right. Now, did you wet your bed?"

Esme looks down at her unicorn. "It was an accident, Mommy. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Thank you for telling me the truth."

"Mommy, because I lied, is Santa not going to come now?"

As you change her, you wonder who's been telling her these horrible stories. "Sweetie, why do you think Santa wouldn't come because you lied?"

"Because I was a bad girl for lying." Esme's eyes are downcast, and when she looks at you, they're full of tears. "But I didn't mean to be bad!"

"Esme, you're a very good girl and Daddy and I love you, no matter what you do. Santa isn't going to come because you made a mistake, okay?"

You cuddle her close and kiss her hair, happy that you can give her the wish that she longs for. "Be happy, sweetie."

She rubs her eyes. "Okay. I'm a good girl, right?"

"Right."

//~//

You get Mark and Esme out of the house for awhile during the scheduled Glass Horse Stealth Delivery time (Mark's name, not yours). "Have fun skating in Central Park!"

"Okay!" Esme waves at you with her little white mitten. "Bye, Mommy!"

"Bye!"

When she's safely out of the house, you call the contact number for the seller and suffer a moment of pure shock when the phone is answered.

"Hi, Addie!"

"Sav?!"

" . . . Yes?"

"I'm calling the seller for a Swarovski crystal horse that I bought on eBay. You don't have any Swarovski crystal!"

Savvy laughs, her rich giggling filling the phone. "Addison, I have a bunch of crap in the attic I want to get rid of. That's why I put it on eBay. Why are you buying a glass horse?"

"Esme wants one and she's had a rough Christmas season. I normally don't give in, but . . ."

"Well, that's sweet, and perfect, actually. I was just about to leave to bring it to you! I didn't realize it was you – did you change your email address?"

"Yeah, but I'm surprised you didn't recognize the address."

"You have it marked down here to be delivered to the hospital, Ad." You can practically hear Sav's tongue sticking out and you smack your head.

"That's true. I'm an idiot."

"Well, I'm going to bring it over now. Is Esme around?"

"No, I sent her and Mark to go skating. Hurry up!"

You get the money ready, but when blonde-haired Savvy comes through the door, she waves it away. "No, I don't need your money, Addie. I want to help you make your little one happy."

"Thanks so much for that, Sav. She's going to be over the moon."

Savvy's eyes darken a little. "Well, I'm glad that I can make a child happy at Christmas," she says lightly, but you know that it hurts her that she never was able to have kids of her own.

You hug her. "You're welcome to share my child anytime."

She smiles back. "Merry Christmas, Addie."

//~//

That night, Esme is bouncy. "I can't sleep, Mommy! Santa will come and I want to see him!"

Mark grins. "Santa won't come if you don't settle down!"

Esme sticks out her tongue at him. "He will so, Daddy."

"Well, go to sleep anyway. Daddy's tired." Mark slumps down over Esme's little body and she squeals with laughter, pulling at his hair.

"Daddy!"

"Mark, quit getting her going," you chide, and stroke back Esme's hair. "I promise, if you're not awake in the morning, I'll wake you up."

"Okay."

As you close her door, you smile at Mark. "It was Sav all along. I can't believe it. She's totally our Christmas angel this year."

"We got lucky," he whispers, stroking your hair back. "But you're a good mom."

In response, you kiss him. "Thanks, Mark."

//~//

The crack of dawn has new meaning when an excited four-year-old bounces on the bed at five AM. "Wake up, wake up! Santa's been here! It's Christmas!"

You rub your eyes. "Esme, sweetie, it's not time to get up yet."

"Yes it is! It's morning!" She points at the barest crack of light in the sky and Mark groans from the other side of the bed.

"Where? In France?"

"NO!" Esme pouts at him. "In America! Where we live!"

You pull her cold little body under the covers. "Well, we're going to just have some quiet time for a little while before we go down, okay?"

"Mommy! I want to go down now!"

You give up. "Fine." You foresee naps in the future as all of you trundle down the stairs and Mark goes to start the double-roast espresso you save for early hospital mornings.

Esme immediately tears into her stocking. "Wow! Look at all this great stuff!"

"Totally. You got a good haul this year, Es." You watch her covertly out of the corner of your eyes as Mark hands you a cup of blacker-than-black coffee and she stumbles on a silver-wrapped package at the base of her stocking.

"You want to be careful with that one, Es," suggests Mark, and with delicate care, the four-year-old pulls off the paper and gently opens the box.

"Is this?" She doesn't even finish her sentence before the sparkle of crystal hits the light from the table lamp beside her.

"It's my HORSEY!" Her squeal is almost too loud for the morning, but the look on her face says it all.

She immediately runs to you. "Look! Santa DID come! It's real! Mommy, look!"

"That's a great horsey, peanut. She sparkles so beautifully."

"Her name is Crystal. And she needs to go in a safe place," says Esme importantly. "She's . . . frageel."

"Fragile?"

"Yeah. You know, breakable." Immediately, a pajamaed tush is seen as Esme climbs up onto the armchair beside the fire and scrambles up on the arm to place the horse on the mantelpiece.

"There. Now she can watch us have Christmas!"

By the time the sun rises, Esme is ready for a nap. "This was such a nice morning," she mutters as you cover her on the couch.

"I think so, too."

"Thank you, Mommy."

"Merry Christmas, Esme."


End file.
